


Take It into the Palm of Your Hand

by jinlinli



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (Basically Irish Love Fairies), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bucky starts to fall in love and thinks it's a magic spell, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Dryad!Steve, Gancanaghs, Knight!Bucky, M/M, Magic Sword!Natasha, Mistaken Identity, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, She's very unimpressed with Bucky, mercenary!Bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2019-02-14 02:18:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12997677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jinlinli/pseuds/jinlinli
Summary: Hair burnished like gold, a smile that captured and held one's attention, and that subtle spark of unnatural light in the eyes. It would gleam even in the pitchest night, he knew. There was a fineness to his features that spoke of nobility—or an allure.Bucky could wither away pining for that face, and that was the most dangerous part of all.Bucky is a wandering knight. A mercenary for hire, really. He finds himself entangled in a perilous contract with a gancanagh, an Irish love fey. His mere presence is too intoxicating for Bucky to ignore, and it's all he can do to resist the temptation to kiss and touch and consign himself to the fey's sweet addictive toxin. But perhaps Bucky has been misreading the signs all along, and the fey truly isn't what he seems to be.





	Take It into the Palm of Your Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starmaki (themirrordarkly)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/themirrordarkly/gifts).



> And here is my first auction fic for the Fandom Loves Puerto Rico charity fundraiser! Thank you so much [Starmaki](http://starmaki.tumblr.com/) for donating to the cause! I really enjoyed brainstorming with you on what fic you wanted, and in the end, you gave me such an interesting prompt! It's like nothing I've ever written before, and I really loved the challenge. I hope you enjoy the fic <3
> 
> The absolutely amazing [Gerry (obsessivereader)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessivereader/pseuds/obsessivereader) took the time to beta this fic, and I owe her so much for doing such an exceptional job. She has an eye for character dynamics and missed opportunities like no other. And I must admit, I haven't cracked open a fantasy novel in years, so Gerry was a lifesaver when it came to the genre tropes and details I fell short on. Thank you so much <3 without you, this fic would be in a significantly worse place.
> 
> For my readers, please enjoy!

Bucky took a breath and rolled his shoulders. He wore another man's chainmail, someone who was smaller in the shoulders than he was, and it'd chafed for the last hours of the battle. One of the other foot soldiers, some minor knight's squire he imagined, took a glance at his sword hand and swallowed nervously. Bucky smiled grimly at him, and the man paled.

He could almost feel her hum of contentment through his gauntlet. It'd been a long hard fight, and she was very nearly sated now. It almost didn't hurt to hold her, though filigrees of frost still crept up the armor on his right side. Like some noblewoman had draped some of her best lace on his sword arm.

He very nearly laughed at the image.

His sword was no sheltered lady, pale and thin-boned. She was an old spirit who'd gorged herself on the blood of thousands, men and fey alike. Bucky was only one of many who'd held her—never wielded her. He knew of no one in her history to whom she ever truly yielded. She never even considered Bucky notable enough to deign sharing her name with him. He had some idea, however. The bone-deep chill from her blade seeped down the handle and into his hand. She was the bitter cold in the depths of winter. To fight with her was to feel pain.

The squire bent down to pick up a pendant from the muck and clumsily scrubbed it clean with the sleeve of his leather jerkin. It was a pretty little bauble on a simple cord, and he tied it around the hilt of his sword. The jewel glittered merrily in the sunlight, and the squire smiled. It would get the man killed, flashing like a beacon on the battlefield. Bucky turned and left the squire to it.

He spotted the commander some ways away but did not approach him. He was some viscount or baron with a good head for strategy. A swarthy man, battle-tested and cynical for it. The single eye he had left missed almost nothing, and Bucky never liked being under its scrutiny. He could collect his silver from him later. The man was too smart by half to think he could cheat a mercenary of Bucky's stature. He would receive his pay soon enough.

Beside the commander was a knight with two swords sheathed on his back. The leather straps crossed his chest in a distinct X, and he wore the tabard of Bucky's employer—a shield and an eagle on a blue field. Bucky grimaced and turned before the man could catch sight of him. This was no true Knight of the Shield but rather the dog of a power-hungry duke, one that held grudges and knew Bucky's face. He picked his way to the edge of the field. His sword snickered, and the hoarfrost on her hilt spread into the crevices of Bucky's gauntlet. He sighed and flexed his fingers against the cold.

There were wild forests just beyond the field. It was ancient land, rife with deceptive magic. The careless traveler would easily lose his way, chasing will-o'-the-wisps ever deeper. Any mortal would be foolish to enter. Bucky glanced over his shoulder, and the false knight looked his way, his head tilted with suspicion. Bucky quickly turned his face away, stepped out of the sunlight and under the shelter of the beckoning trees.

His sword shivered with delight. These were familiar lands to her. Some previous wielder must have hunted these woods often—likely for werewolves, he thought. The surrounding villages kept silver talismans on the lintels of their doors. At least, they did before the looting. Around him, the leaves crackled with new frost as his sword tugged him further into the forest. He sheathed her, ignoring her disappointed hiss. He sensed many watchful eyes on him. Some were old enough to remember a dead witch hunter's blade. The fey had long memories.

The branches were grasping hands, snatching insistently at his cloak. The wind sighed. He was no longer on the path meandering through the forest, he realized. The sun had been blocked out almost entirely by the branches overhead. He’d lost his way much more quickly than he thought he would. He touched his hand to the hilt of his sword, and the cold once again seeped under his skin. It brought just enough clarity for Bucky to sense the miasma of confounding magic that suffused the whole forest. He grimaced and pressed onward.

It was only a matter of time before he ran into one of the Fair Folk.

Bucky stumbled across him as he negotiated around the roots of an especially large oak tree. The fey had a slight build. Almost wispy if Bucky was prone to fancy, but he wasn't. He wore a simple tunic and hose cut from a fabric he couldn't quite identify. It certainly wasn't any wool or linen he'd ever seen before. Hair burnished like gold, a smile that captured and held one's attention, and that subtle spark of unnatural light in the eyes. It would gleam even in the darkest night, he knew. There was a fineness to his features that spoke of nobility—or an allure.

And he was beautiful. Underneath the shine of near-immortality, his eyes were round, doe-like. His was a face that was easy to love, Bucky thought to himself. Well-formed and flushed pink at the tip of his nose. A vine wove its way through his hair and down to the nape of his neck. He moved with the light grace of a being not fully bound to earth, and it was endlessly entrancing. Even the line of his calf was appealing. Hair like the sun, eyes like the sky, fair skin that bruised and freckled easily, that mouth—and Bucky needed to _stop_.

He could wither away pining for that face, and that was the most dangerous part of all.

Bucky wrenched his eyes away from the play of the fey’s tapered fingers on his tunic. Normally his sword blocked out all other befuddling magics simply with her presence. As painful as it was, there was a clarity to her cold. He could feel the ice creeping along the back of his armor even now, but it did nothing to keep Bucky from noticing how well-formed the fey's lips were. Pretty mouth, pretty teeth in neat little rows, a dimple on his chin. He closed his eyes and grounded himself in the unrelenting cold at his back.

Bucky was no scholar but only fools ventured beyond the townwalls of mortal men without a working knowledge of the unnatural creatures that roamed the wild lands. There were few beings powerful enough to overwhelm his sword’s protective magics. There were even fewer who drew their victims in with false feelings of affection and yearning and the all-consuming desire to touch.

He narrowed his eyes. There was one breed of fey who dealt in love and longing. One who preyed on foolish young things who strayed too far from man’s domain. They would coax those wide-eyed shepherds and milkmaids in with sweet words and a beguiling aura. The touch of their skin was intoxicating—addictive. Bucky carefully edged away. He felt vulnerable and exposed even under the protective plating of his armor. He was suddenly conscious of his lack of helmet, the bare skin of his cheek prickling under the fey’s gaze. There was little hope of winning against a foe who could conquer you with a single touch.

At least the oppressive weight of illusions had receded somewhat, and he could finally think again. The more powerful fey could do that, he knew. Mute all other magics but their own. God only knew what other enchantments were at play, but at least he had his wits about him. He was going to need it if he was to deal with a gancanagh.

The fey was studying him with those uncanny eyes. There was a steadiness to him that felt very, very ancient. Bucky bit down on a curse. Older fey were just as easily offended as any fledgling, but they were much wilier in crafting their revenge. This particular fey lacked the clay pipe and farmer’s hat that the gancanagh normally favored, but there was very little about him that was typical. And that made him all the more dangerous.

As centuries of their lifetime passed, fey became more erratic and unpredictable. They were no longer bound by the norms of their kind. To stave off the march of boredom, they preferred a more wary and canny variety of prey. The type that would put up a fight and make the hunt more interesting. Bucky was no milkmaid, but a gancanagh as old as this one wouldn’t even spare her a second glance. He would've drawn his sword there if he hadn't known it would bring his death.

And even now, he could feel the irresistible pull towards the fey—a desire to card his fingers through that hair, to pluck at his clothes, to press against those lips. Bucky wrenched his gaze away. That would only doom him. To touch a gancanagh's skin was to succumb to its sweet poison. It would consume him entirely, and he would never be able get enough of it until it completely devoured him.

The fey had turned his bewitching gaze away from Bucky's face, and he breathed easier. And then, a voice, quiet and low, "Your sword. She is a strange creature."

She pulsed a burst of cold that raised the hairs on his neck. It was an almost gentle sensation, so Bucky supposed that comment had pleased her instead of offended. She was fickle and hard to predict at the best of times. And she cared little if Bucky lived or died, so she would have no qualms against raising the ire of a gancanagh just as old and powerful as her.

"Soulbound swords are not so uncommon," Bucky said. Neutral, noncommittal, but polite—that was what would save his skin now.

The gancanagh raised an eyebrow. "Do you know what it is you truly possess? I can see she is much more than that."

"She doesn't speak."

"She chooses not to." The gancanagh tilted his head. Bucky drew his eyes away from the play of shadows on the fey's neck. "You said does not. You haven't said cannot."

"Does it matter?" Bucky asked, feeling himself slowly being cornered. He could only speak in half-truths and omissions for so long. Lying outright to a fey would be—unwise.

The gancanagh watched him for a long time before leaning back against the tree. "I suppose it doesn't," he said, backing down surprisingly easily. "You're a sell-sword, yes?"

Bucky didn't even bother answering. A knight with mismatched but functional armor. One who moved with the ease of a trained warrior but bore no coat of arms on his tabard. He didn't exactly attempt to hide.

"I have a favor to ask of you."

"A favor," Bucky said, carefully neutral.

"Yes." The fey's eyes gleamed in the near-darkness. Night fell early in the wild forests, or perhaps time passed more quickly here. This was dangerous. One didn't refuse a fey lightly. Their kind were prone to extremes, bestowing great gifts for any kindnesses, no matter how small, and inflicting the most terrible curses for even the slightest of insults. Trading in deals and favors with the fey meant gambling with your very life. Any half-wit knew better than to take the risk. But the opening sally had already been made, and Bucky was well and truly trapped now. He was starting to wish he'd taken his chances with the false knight.

"The roads these days are dangerous," the fey continued. "I need a swordhand at my side for the journey ahead of me."

Bucky let out a quiet breath. This was familiar territory at least. Escort and protect—a simple job he'd done hundreds of times before. And the fey made better employers than many. In their own twisted way, they were unrelentingly fair. So long as he remembered the rules, he could make his wager and perhaps come out a richer man. Or alive at the very least.

"Where do you need to go then? The lands west of here are glutted with blood-drunk soldiers. They won't clear out for a fortnight at least."

"You're accepting? I hadn't even mentioned payment," the gancanagh said, raising an eyebrow.

"Your kind have a reputation for—fairness. I don't doubt that you will pay your debts."

The gancanagh frowned but didn't comment. Bucky hoped he hadn't somehow offended him—he'd never been particularly diplomatic. His line of work didn't exactly call for delicacy. "A port with ships bound for the continent," the fey said instead. "That's where I need to go."

"The continent? A long journey indeed."

"I can make my way from there."

Bucky studied him. He knew the fey were not bound by the limits of mortal flesh, but it was hard to imagine this small slip of a man navigating the tumultuous continent alone. Some latent protective instinct whispered that he should offer to accompany him further. He growled under his breath and forced himself to focus on the matter at hand.

"Waterford is south of here. It's one of the larger port cities. Not many continent-bound ships come through this time of year, but if you board one heading to England, you'll have more luck there. Ships tend to favor English ports because the South Sea is a mild creature."

The fey nodded thoughtfully. Even that simple movement was frustratingly entrancing. "To Waterford then."

 

* * *

 

Bucky took first watch. The gancanagh curled up under an old withered tree, staring at him with faintly shining eyes. He kicked a clump of leaves into the fire which spat a gout of smoke at him for his trouble. They were out of the wild forests now. The naked flame would be visible for miles, but Bucky's sword had been sinking her claws into him more viciously than normal. He couldn't afford to spend the night with no fire to keep the cold at bay.

He ran a whetstone along her blade, letting the simple task quiet his mind. The gancanagh was not watching him, Bucky realized. He was looking at the sword. His expression was distant, as if he was listening to some far-off melody. She reached out to people sometimes—souls she had known once perhaps. They didn't always hear her or recognize her, but the gancanagh did. His brows furrowed, and his eyes flicked up to Bucky's face.

"She called me old," he said, startled.

Bucky's eyes widened, and in the moment before he could compose himself, he mirrored the other man's astonishment. "You can understand her?"

The oil on his whetstone grew thick and viscous, and the temperature dropped rapidly. The grass beneath his feet crackled as it froze. He felt a wave of some strange emotion swell and ebb from her as the gancanagh edged closer to Bucky. A crown of frost threaded through the fey's hair. It was a soft gesture. It could almost be considered friendly.

"She doesn't seem to like you all that much," the gancanagh said and laughed at Bucky's scowl.

"I'm honored that she even bothered to form an opinion of me," he grumbled.

"She has many," the fey said. "She doesn't find you particularly—impressive."

"Of course."

He laughed again. "She doesn't find me all that remarkable either. Aside from my age."

"Few beings are older than her."

The other man looked down at Bucky's sword with a bemused little smile. "I suppose you're right." He took another step forward and reached out. Bucky studied the comely form of his wrist and thought he could maybe feel the heat from the fey's body through his doublet. They were very close suddenly. Bucky scrambled back, and the gancanagh blinked with surprise. "What?"

"What were you doing?" Bucky snapped, more sharply than he should. For a moment, he'd forgotten. He'd looked at the gancanagh's too bright, too pleasing eyes, and he'd believed that he was no more dangerous than an enigmatic man with a crooked smile. Bucky ignored the confusion and hurt twisting the fey's pretty face.

"I just wanted to—can I hold her?"

He was still much too close to the very exposed skin of Bucky's hands. He passed the sword hilt first to the gancanagh to distract him from that fact. The fey’s fingers, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and his ears were flushed from the cold. Bucky clenched his hand into the fabric of his doublet to keep himself from reaching out to touch. The fey cradled the sword close to his chest, peering down at the runes etched into her blade.

"Can you read it?"

The gancanagh frowned. "No, but I've seen the language before. She hails from somewhere far east of here. Further east than even my own birthplace. It's a cold cruel land—her home."

"Did she tell you that? Did she say anything else?" Bucky asked, leaning forward. "Did she tell you her name?"

The gancanagh shook his head, and Bucky sat back with a disappointed sigh. "She said she was made for one soul and one soul alone. But his mortal shell has long since withered away, leaving her behind. A widow—that's what she calls herself."

Bucky had roamed for many years with that sword by his side, but he still knew precious little about her. And now he had a name. A glimpse into her past. The widow. It was an oddly fitting moniker that she'd chosen for herself. He'd always sensed a melancholy to her, an ancient sorrow, familiar like an old friend. The gancanagh gently stroked her hilt. There was a strangely tender expression on his face.

The moment broke when the gancanagh let out a light laugh. It was a sound that brought forth images of leaves brushing playfully against each other, the wind teasing through tree branches. Bucky drank in the sound of it, knowing that it was the fey's own magic that compelled him.

"You asked me for her name when you haven't once asked me for my own."

"You never introduced yourself," Bucky said.

"Neither have you."

They watched each other for a long moment. The fire crackled contentedly, a counterpoint to the strange standoff between the two of them. The widow’s blade almost seemed to glow in the dim light. There was a watchful quality to her silence.

"Bucky," he said, the first to break the silence. "My name is Bucky."

The gancanagh arched an eyebrow. "I'm not familiar with mortal names, especially not ones from this region. But that is not a name I've heard before."

Bucky looked out on the dark hills in the distance. "The night I was born my mother saw a bean sidhe herding a handful of deer. She wailed and frightened my mother away with me in her arms. When she returned home in the morning, she found that all had been burned to ash, and she realized that she'd been spared by the warning of the bean sidhe. The only living thing left in the whole town was a stag grazing in the village green."

"A buck," the gancanagh said, smiling.

"Yes. And you—what should I call you?"

"Stephanos."

Bucky frowned. "That is not a name I recognize either."

"Most people I've met here have taken to calling me Steve." The gancanagh shrugged lightly. "I've said before that I'm from a place east of here. You haven't asked where I come from either."

"I'm not a curious man by nature."

The fey smiled. "No, I suppose you're not," he murmured.

"It sounds like a Greek name."

"It is."

Bucky fell silent as the words sank in. "You're far from home."

"I am," Stephanos—no, Steve—said, his eyes fixed on the distant hills beyond the weak circle of light cast by the fire. Some hours before, the moon had risen from that point on the horizon. The land had cooled around them, and Bucky noticed that Steve was shivering. He would be used to fairer winters than this. "If I'm too long away from my tree, I will wither."

Bucky stared at Steve. He understood very well that he knew almost nothing of the creatures that roamed the continent. But Greek fleet-footed beings whose lifelines were tied to trees—Bucky suddenly felt very foolish. A _dryad_.

"You're not—?"

"What did you think I was?"

"Ah, well," Bucky said, a rush of heat flushing his face. The widow sent a shot of cold up Bucky’s arm, and he could almost hear her laughing. In truth, Steve bore no resemblance at all to a gancanagh. Except the inexplicable irresistible pull Bucky felt even now— to touch, to press, to _taste_. "Things that live in the wild forests and make deals with mortals aren’t usually the peaceable type."

Steve simply leaned forward, watching him. Bucky hadn’t truly answered, and they both knew Steve could easily wait him out. Dryads were flighty and inconstant by nature, but at their core, they were creatures of the steadfast tree. An hour meant little to a being well over a hundred years old.

"A gancanagh," Bucky finally said. "A love talker. They ah, feed off love and longing. There is a poison in their skin that leaves mortals addicted to their touch. Then the gancanagh abandons them to waste away." Another burst of cold, and this time, Bucky could _hear_ laughter. It was a woman’s voice, rolling with an almost raspy quality to it. He stilled and gently ran a finger along the widow’s fuller.

Steve smiled. "Now why would you think I was this—love talker?"

Bucky scowled down at the fire. He was a knight of some renown, respected by most, feared by many. He should _not_ be blushing like a lady at her first tourney. "Gancanagh auras are alluring to their victims. They draw them in with feelings of attraction," Bucky resolutely kept his gaze away from Steve’s face, "and hunger."

"Oh?" Steve said, his voice curling on the syllable. Bucky was very conscious of the distance between the two of them. Even in the low light, he could pick out each lash framing the other man’s eyes. Steve leaned even closer.

"How can you survive being so far away from your tree?" Bucky cut in, putting inches of space between their bodies.

Steve raised an eyebrow. "I’ve lived a long life, even by a dryad’s standard. My connection to my tree has had time to—settle. There’s very little that can break this bond. My roots run deep." He pushed forward again, his eyes glinting. "But what I’m curious about is how you came by the widow."

It was strange meeting someone who knew the widow’s significance but nothing of Bucky, he realized. She had moldered in obscurity in the Pierce family vaults for generations before Bucky picked her up and brought her back into the world. Her fame now was tied entirely to Bucky’s own notoriety, and anyone who knew of Bucky also knew how he acquired his sword.

But for the first time, Bucky could choose how the story was told. He could make it out to be a grand adventure. Outwitting a corrupt duke and stealing one of his prized swords right from his armory. It could be a hero’s tale, but Bucky was no tavern minstrel. He didn’t know how to wipe a story clean of blood and terror, to turn some of the worst years of his life into a soaring, sanitized tale.

"There are some employers you cannot say no to. He found me as I lay dying on a battlefield. Had his men patch me up then bound me to his service with some strange artifact. My mind was still my own, but my body wasn’t. He gave orders, and my limbs obeyed against my will. I remember every moment of it. Everything he made me do, it’s still in my head, and I wish I hadn’t been awake for any of it."

The memory still left a sour taste in his mouth, kept raw and fresh by the relentless pursuit of the duke’s pet knight. The leather straps crossing his chest, his twin swords, his laughter as he’d watched Bucky’s silent, futile resistance.

"His control only broke when he commanded me to retrieve something from his personal armory, and the widow saw me," Bucky continued. "She freed my mind and demanded that I free her in return. Our escape was very messy and spanned half a fiefdom. By the next fortnight, the whole kingdom knew that I’d stolen a soulbound sword from the duke I’d sworn myself to for three years. Even if it wasn’t by choice." He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his voice when he said, "It’s defined my reputation ever since. He has no hold on me any longer, and yet my path will always be controlled by his influence. I am free but not truly."

Steve looked at Bucky with the strangest expression on his face. It was one he’d never witnessed on a non-mortal, one he’d never seen directed at himself. It was filled with such wrenching human emotion that Bucky had to look away. If didn’t, he would have to believe that Steve felt _sorrow_ for him.

Neither of them spoke for a long time, letting the bitter memories sit between them. It was strange how deftly Steve navigated this. In complete silence, he managed to remain compassionate, respectful, and not remotely pitying. Bucky wondered what had happened in the dryad’s lifetime for him to understand the need for quiet in moments such as these.

Eventually Steve did break the silence. "So that is why you fear the gancanagh so deeply."

Bucky stiffened. "Only fools would feel at ease around a fey like that."

"No," Steve murmured. "There is caution, and there is terror. The gancanagh is a creature that deals in distinct emotions. Not lust but love. And even that love is a specific breed, one that is rife with helplessness and loss. I don’t think you fear the gancanagh himself." His voice was gentle, the words delicately spoken, but Steve refused to allow him to shrink from the truth. "I think you’re afraid that if you meet one, the past will repeat itself. You’re afraid you won’t be able to choose. Who you fall in love with, what path your life will take, how you’ll die."

Bucky closed his eyes and felt the heat of Steve’s skin as he leaned closer. A breath sighed against his cheek. The barest rustle of clothing as Steve shifted. It was terrifying but bizarrely affirming that Steve knew his words would hurt and yet trusted that Bucky would survive them. The night was still around them, and he let himself feel afraid. It had been easier when the pull he felt could’ve been nothing more than a fey’s allure.

"Can I touch you?" Steve asked, his mouth a bare inch away from Bucky’s skin. He made no promises nor grand admissions. All that was offered was a simple choice. And Bucky was eminently grateful for that kindness.

"Yes," he said.

There was no spark of magic when Steve’s fingers brushed Bucky’s cheek. No telltale tingle of the unnatural. It wasn’t until that moment that Bucky realized some corner of him had feared he’d been wrong. That Steve was simply an exceptionally canny fey, and Bucky had fallen for his guileless face and his soft words.

But there was nothing extraordinary about Steve’s index and middle finger resting against the curve of his own cheek. Warm pliant skin against his own—remarkable for how utterly mundane it was.

Steve pulled away, and the two points of contact disappeared. Bucky felt nothing. "I’m not in love with you," he said, surprising even himself with the admission. He opened his eyes and stared at the stretch of Steve’s smile. The otherworldly shine of his eyes cast strange shadows on his face. The now familiar pull towards Steve tugged at him once again, and for the first time, Bucky did not fear it.

He wasn’t in love with Steve, but perhaps one day he could be.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I did take the time to come up with a justification for why someone named Bucky would be living in medieval Ireland. I love the guy, but you have to admit his name is one of the most _ridiculous_ things you've ever heard. 
> 
> If you like the fic, come give me a shout on my [tumblr](http://jinlinli.tumblr.com/)!


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